The Haunting Memory
by docs pupil
Summary: In the dead of night, the mind of a resurrected Courier reminds her of why she's there.


He holds a finger up to the armored gangster to his left. "The Khans may not look 'em in the eye...but I'm no fink."

The Courier struggles with her wrist bonds, twisting this way and that, trying to find a loose knot somewhere.

The man in the gingham-checked suit draws his pistol, the audible cock of the hammer making her blood run cold. She wants to plead with the men, ask them why they're doing this to a simple Courier, but her throat closes up in horror.

"Sorry it had to end like this..." he shrugs impassionedly. "But the game was rigged from the start."

The muzzle points directly at her brow. For a split second the world seems to freeze in place, every single atom in the universe standing still all at once, but the sudden echoing crack of the shot shatters the silence.

The young woman wakes with a start on the dusty, desert ground, feeling her usual bout of nausea creeping up on her. Picking herself up off the dirt she tucks her head between her knees, to aubade the feeling. After a minute of deep breathing, her turning stomach finally settles right side up, leveling out with her perception of reality.

In the dimming firelight, she looks over the sleeping faces of her traveling companions, seemingly uncaring of the world around them as they nestle comfortably under thin blankets or snore loudly while propped up against the tall rocks of the Vegas desert.

Finding nothing else to do, the Courier picks up her canteen and heads down to the nearby watering hole.

At the edge of the pool, she kneels down, examining her haggard reflection in the still water. The bags under her eyes have gotten darker, she notes, sighing at her aged face. She feels around the front of her scalp finding the scar from her bullet wound. "You're still alive," she tells her reflection, tracing the deep, irregularly rounded groove. "It's just a dream."

"What's a dream?"

She jumps to her feet, her hands balled into fists. "Geez Arcade! Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"Believe me, with your sudden narcissism, I didn't have to try." He approaches the water, curious about what could make her so jumpy. "Now what's this about a dream?"

"Nothing." The Courier slips the strap of her canteen from her shoulder, dusting the can off. "Aren't you supposed to be asleep?"

"I'm on watch. Besides, you're always asking me questions."

"And you always evade them." She blows the dirt off the head of the can, filling it with cooled water.

He kneels down beside her, reaching over to part her hair. "Then let me see your forehead."

She lunges back from his hands, landing hard on her backside. "Why?!"

He huffs an irritated sigh. "Because for the past three nights you've woken up scared out of your wits. Once you catch your breath, you proceed to touch the same part of your head every time."

"Why don't you go bother Boone then?! He wakes up with cold shivers and heavy breathing most nights!"

"Well," he sarcastically answers her. "I'm very fond of the way my face is arranged at the moment."

"And you don't think I can do the same," she indignantly points out, leaping to her feet, her wet canteen floundering about in the water.

Arching a brow, he stands, folding his arms across his chest. "You forget I've seen you in unarmed combat. Frankly, you're terrible."

The young woman grumbles at her failed bluff.

"Now, you asked me to join you because I have some medical skills. So, as a trained physician, I demand to see your forehead."

The Courier's agony is apparent on her face, but she complies. She takes his hand, leading him to the spot where her scar lingers from not so long ago.

Arcade uses his free hand to part her hair, carefully examining the still healing wound on her scalp. His usually neutral face falters for a split second before he regains his composure. "Does it hurt when I do this?" He presses into the center of the irregular circle.

The eye below the wound twitches. "A little."

"What about this?" He presses at the skin around the wound.

"No."

He ponders his previous experience with flesh wounds. "Your bullet wound is healing quiet nicely."

She stays quiet, hoping he'll finally go away.

"You're re-living when you received this wound, aren't you?"

The Courier avoids eye contact, trying to not seem weak. "So what?"

"This Benny person you're looking for, did he shoot you?"

"Go kiss a Deathclaw!" She pushes away his hands, marching off.

His feet stay stationary, but the soft menace of his voice follows her instead. "I can be just as persistent as you."

She flips him the universal sign.

"Oh very mature."


End file.
